


The Night We Met

by peachesanddenim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always Female Castiel (Supernatural), Always Female Dean Winchester, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachesanddenim/pseuds/peachesanddenim
Summary: A reimagining of Lazarus Rising; Castiel and Dean meet for the first time in a plane of existence where they have been, and always will be, women.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 3





	The Night We Met

**Author's Note:**

> I just am a slut for fem!destiel- honestly this will probably be a series

Dean’s heart is beating so hard and fast in her chest she thinks it might fucking shatter. Just explode into a million shards and shred her insides. The rattling of the barn around them is near deafening, the storm that rages outside roaring and spitting and Dean has one last singular thought of oh fuck before the barn doors crash open. 

She can feel it, before she can see it. It swarms into the space like something alive, like a gale-force wind, cold and electrifying as it skitters up her spine. The lights above them hum and shutter and die, cloaking them in lightning stamped darkness. Her teeth chatter, not from the pseudo-cold that's slithered inside the barn, but from the force of clacking, creaking energy or whatever the fuck that permeates the space like a biochemical gas. When she does see it, it’s a her. 

She walks in, each step heavy, her head tilted down by the intensity of her gaze, and Dean and Bobby are burying round after round into her with quick, buckling shots. They do fuck all. Blood blossoms through the thick, beige material of her coat, but she presses on without so much as a damned blink. 

Dean fumbles for Ruby’s knife, and the feel of the hilt in her hand is woefully pathetic.

“Who are you?” She spits, and she’s close now, too fucking close, so close that Dean can feel the hair on her arms stand straight up, feel the back of her neck damp up with nervous sweat. Being this close to her is like licking the wrong end of a battery. 

“I’m the one that gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” She gravels, and her voice is so deep it honestly belongs to a man, her vocal chords grating together like pieces of flint, sparking and smoking. 

“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Dean hisses, and buries the knife in her chest. She blinks, face blank, and looks down at the knife. With deft, nimble fingers, long and spindly, nails painted a translucent pink, she plucks the knife out and lets it clatter to the floor. Dean sees Bobby rear behind her, can’t manage a warning past her lips quick enough, and watches with no small amount of terror as whatever she is reaches behind and catches Bobby’s arm without once breaking her eyes away from Dean. Finally, as if it’s a fucking inconvenience, she turns around to handle Bobby, placing two fingers to his forehead and lowering him to the ground. 

Her eyes find Dean’s again, and fuck if it isn’t like touching an electric fence. 

“We need to talk, Deanna. Alone.” 

Dean balks, and her brain feels like it’s melting out of her ears. Before she can ask, as if the bitch already knows, she says, “Your friend’s alive.” 

Dean fumbles for words, watches the thing as she straightens and purveys the books on the nearby table. She’s fairly tall, pale skinned, and her hair is done up in the shittiest excuse of a bun Dean’s ever seen. It sprays and falls around her head in licks of raven, gathering thickly where her coat collar is bunched around her neck. She looks like she stepped straight out of a goddamn cubicle, complete with silky black slacks and a feathery white blouse. She’s wearing sensible fucking heels. 

“Who are you?” Dean manages, and God, if she isn’t pissed. Scared to death, she can taste her fear on her tongue, but it makes her angry. She’s seeing red, her body is taut like a bow and if it weren’t like standing next to a live warhead being around this cunt, she’d kill her with her bare fucking hands. 

Most terrifying, what leaves her throat working and her chest fluttering, is something about her is familiar. Briefly, barely, so faint Dean has a hard time identifying it for what it is at all, but it’s there. And it scares her. 

“Castiel.” She says, without inflection, and she looks at her again. Dean is an ant under a magnifying glass, stuck and boiling alive in a shard of angled sunlight. Her eyes are incredibly, inhumanly blue, like thunderclouds. Something behind them writhes and burns, slinks silver, and Dean shudders. 

“Yeah, I figured that much.” She quips. “I mean what are you?” 

She’s got no goddamn clue what Castiel’s answer might be. Dean realizes she’s shaking with the urge, the desperate need to know and know immediately. 

“I’m an Angel of the Lord.” She says, shoulders rolling back as if with pride, and Dean snorts. 

“Get the hell outta here. There’s no such thing.” Dean snaps, nearly hysterical. She doesn’t believe it, can’t believe, won’t believe it. How could she? How could she possibly manhandle the existence of angels into her perception when all she’s ever known is death and violence and piss and shit and blood. Nothing so pure and good as an angel could exist when reality is so fucking tainted. Maybe it’s the forty years in Hell, but Dean hasn’t exactly seen enough good in the long, shitty expanse of her life to warrant the existence of angels. Or god for that matter. 

Castiel utters a hint of a sigh before, “This is your problem, Deanna. You have no faith.” 

Dean tears back, ready to give Castiel a piece of her mind, but she’s cut off by a rolling clap of thunder. Illuminated by cracks and splinters of lightning so white it’s nearly blinding, Castiel’s chest inflates and behind her spans sucking, black shadows of wings. Huge ones, as if they were corporeal they’d fill the entire barn, and Dean’s breath stutters to a complete stop. 

Oh fuck, she thinks again. 

“Some angel you are.” She gripes, almost smirking from the heady taste of danger on the air. Of how monumentally stupid she’s being. She’s nothing if not a masochist, or an adrenaline junky. Take your pick of Dean’s vices, she’s got them in fucking spades. “You burned out that poor man’s eyes.” 

Glimpses of Pat’s face stain Dean’s mind. The charred, smoking craters where his eyes used to be, the subsequent metallic scent of the blood pouring down his pretty skin. 

The bitch has the audacity to look contrite. Dean grits her teeth so hard her jaw pops. 

“I warned him not to spy on my true form. It can be overwhelming for humans, and so can my real voice.” Something dances over her face then, an expression there and gone so quick Dean doesn’t have a snowball's chance of catching it. “But you already knew that.”

Dean is disturbed, her chest heaving, “You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?” 

Castiel nods, that wilting bun of hers bobbing, and Dean can’t help a mirthless, grating chuckle. “Lady, next time, lower the volume.” 

“That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them.” Something about Castiel’s micro expression is almost wistful. Disappointed even. “I was wrong.” 

Dean pushes away the small, irrational part of her that’s actually hurt by this, as if it’s at all surprising that she isn’t enough. That she ain’t special or holy. “And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?” 

Castiel’s gracefully sculpted brows furrow and she looks down, regarding herself with a small amount of surprise. 

“This? This is a vessel.” She says at last, obviously thinking that crucial information isn’t important. 

“You’re possessing some poor bitch?” Dean demands, and all that roiling anger comes back ten-fold, disbelief warring with it. 

“She’s a devout woman, she actually prayed for this.” Castiel tells her, as if it’s some kind of reassurance. Dean scoffs and shakes her head. 

“Well, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?” She demands, and yeah, there’s a force around Castiel that Dean has never experienced before. There’s something about her that sprawls in every conceivable direction because she just doesn’t quite fit inside the business woman she’s wearing. Like she’s a fucking star barely contained by smooth, pale flesh. She’s the scariest thing Dean’s ever encountered, and she pulled her out of hell, and she’s everything Dean doesn’t and hasn’t and will never quite understand. 

But an angel? 

Dean’s been in hell for a fucking lifetime. There’s no way. 

“I told you.” Castiel sighs, and it’s forlorn and nearly frustrated, if each word she said wasn’t heavily blanketed by a cold indifference. 

“Right. And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?” Dean asks, and fuck if it isn’t too damn close to the chest, this question. 

“Good things do happen, Deanna.” Castiel insists, stepping closer, and now Dean can smell her. Like rain on asphalt, like twisting, burning metal, like fields of wildflower. Dean breathes it in deeply before she realizes what she’s doing. 

“Not in my experience.” She bites, but she’s losing her conviction, she’s flagging, she’s scared and she’s tired and her entire worldview is shattering around her and falling at her feet. If this woman is an angel, standing this close to Dean, she’s sure to burst into flames before too long. As rotted and broken and decimated as she is. Like a demon in a church. 

Castiel tilts her head just so, eyes squinting, looking not just at Dean, but through her, into her, and she asks softly, “What's the matter? You don’t think you deserve to be saved?” 

Got it in one. Dean’s breath titters, and she’s getting one hell of a headache with the way her breathing is going, she isn’t getting enough oxygen to her fucking brain. But Castiel, she sucks the air out of the room, changes it and cuts into it and thrums and Dean is blasted to fucking pieces. 

“Why’d you do it?” She manages, forcing the words out, and it’s pulling fucking teeth is what it is. 

Castiel pulls back some, and there it is, Dean can recognize it. Wrath. The birth and death of a thousand stars, a witness to the creation and absolution of all things, an Angel of God. 

“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.” 

—


End file.
